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October 31, 2007

Airport Adventure

In Philly I spoke for the National Society of Newspaper Columnists. Bill O'Reilly warmed up the crowd by calling them cross-eyed liberals and storming offstage.

I always thought Bill had to work his way up to that anger, maybe do some stretching. Turns out that he rolls out of bed that way.

"Fe fi fo fum, I smell libertarians."

For the talk I received a crystal statue that figures prominently into my plans for world domination. The others stole glances at it while debating politics, headlines, civil rights. I contributed only when I had something important to say like, "How come The Hulk's shirt came off, but never his pants?"

Whatever I lacked in social grace I made up for in Jim Beam -- "Give your brain the afternoon off." Mr. Beam was still in charge when I, somewhere between the cab and the airport curb, lost my wallet (estimated distance: five paces).

I searched my pockets at first confidently, invincibly, then with that sinking sensation you get when your car is stolen. You consider every explanation, including alien abduction, before sitting where you are and saying, "They'll be back ... They'll be back."

It's strange to be without I.D. You're turned away by airport bouncers and left to wander the earth like a fugitive until authorities arrive in their hovermobiles to scan your eyeballs and whisk you into a steaming manhole where you live out your days serving Authorized Citizens.

Eyeing the food cart, I thought about lifting a Buffalo wing. The only thing that stopped me was Jean Valjean from "Les Miserables"...

("What have I done? Become a thief in the night, a dog on the run. I have fallen so far and the hour so late that nothing remains but the cry of my hate."(

No, I would not break into song; I would call my ex-wife and tough-love friendYahaira, who assured me that once I got over my poopy pants, I would find the blessing. Maybe, for instance, the scheduled plane had a virus such as Bill O' Reilly.

I got busy calling Visa, Experian, airport security, the library (we can't have someone reading under my name). I left a voicemail for the PPA, who is to cabbies the Queen of Wonderland.

"The driver is in departures instead of arrivals?! OFF WITH HIS HEAD!"

Then I roamed the airport for empty seats. To sleep on. Like lawn trash. So it goes.

From the fetal position I watched people whiz by, all smiles, Authorized Citizens. Since becoming homeless, that was the thing I longed for most: eye contact. I felt like The Ghost of Terminal Four.

At which point a couple sat down and gave me sandwich money. I thanked them 15 times and asked if I could write a poem or something. The woman pet my head -- literally -- and off they went.

My phone rang. Enter Mario Tapia, ex-father-in-law and Philly native.

"Yahaira says you need a place to stay."

Mario arrived on his white steed (Ford Bronco) and took me to Chili's, where we ate -- if you please -- Buffalo wings.

("He gave me hope when hope was gone. He gave me strength to journey on. Who am I? Jean Valjean!"(

Next morning, Mario built me a Tony-Robbins-sized hoagie, expressing his love in number of pickles (approximately 62). My other in-laws showed up with hugs and spare change, making me feel like a jackhole for not calling.

Mario returned me newly showered to Terminal Four, where I received a call from the Queen ... as if she were watching.

"Jason, we found your wallet. The driver is on his way. ON WITH HIS HEAD!"

The cabbie, Ghebgreigzi "I'd Like to Buy a Vowel" Abiher, apologized for the screwup. The wallet had slipped beneath his seat and so on. I tipped him fifty bucks and wheeled over to check-in, where the clerk, amphetamine-level happy, waived my cancellation fee and placed me on the next flight out.

Have you ever been treated so well that you could almost believe in Santa Claus? Not only did I receive the red carpet from family I had just overlooked, but the whole world leant a hand. I have since been giving sandwich money to the homeless and mailed to Mario a wallet reading, "Backup (just in case)."

I'm thinking that maybe, under the right circumstances and with the proper amount of pickles, all this love might even reach Bill O'Reilly. We won't know for sure until one of us steals his wallet.

Posted by Jason Love at 11:25 PM

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October 18, 2007

Trophy Makers

Posted by Jason Love at 3:53 PM

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October 11, 2007

Beach Sand

In youth I developed a taste for beach soot. My family summered at Seal Beach, where we ate peanut butter, jelly, and gritty sunblock sandwiches (PBJ&GS's). I thought the sand was why we called them sandwiches.

I have since learned that sand is not composed of magic, self-purifying crystals from the mines of Etch A Sketch. The beach is smutty foul. Children may as well play frisbee in a giant ash tray. DRESSED IN THEIR UNDERWEAR!

Compare, gentle reader, the following definitions...

dirt, n. the part of Earth's surface consisting of humus and disintegrated rock

sand, n. loose, gritty grains of disintegrated rock

I myself didn't know that Earth was covered in humus, which may explain the way they push it at my grocer; but the point is that if children are given to eat sandwiches, why not dirtwiches or, worse yet, humus on pita?

At least humans avoid dirt. Sand is mixed up in all sorts of corruption. As a teen, I got so wonky on beer (forced upon me by the Bad Kids) that I used the sand for a restroom, spelling my name beside that of my loved one.

She did not find it romantic. So it goes.

At the beach, then, bathing suits may be less appropriate than, say, HAZMAT chemical splashwear. Here are just a few of the items that I've found lying around on the shore: car parts, cutlery, poopy pants, hypodermic needles, a Tony-Robbins-sized marine carcass, and the face of the Virgin Mary.

Since you're already grossed out, how come we see dogs at the beach but never cats? You'd think it would be Kitty Paradise -- the biggest litter box ever! I would personally feel better if, once in a while, they swapped out the existing sand for extra-strength, allergy-control, maximum-clumping, floral scented litter. Now that's a place where I'll play volleyball.

Every year Zuma Beach sees ten million tourists, half of whom are male and think nothing of spitting in sand, which they believe to contain humus and/or pita. Five million spitters ... at least one urinator ... carry the y ... you do the math.

Yet beach loogies are a trifling concern before the more wicked and unnatural phenomenon that we call seagulls...

When they say "eats like a bird," they must not be talking about seagulls unless they mean "swallows anything up to and including an anvil." Seagulls will take your finger if you don't keep it tucked.

Sometimes seagulls stand around conspiring like Roman Senators...

"They've got the bread, men, but we've got the numbers. We've got the numbers."

It's only a matter of time before the seagull population reaches critical mass and the coast becomes lawless like Manhattan Island in the epic motion picture "Escape From New York" and no one -- neither Kurt Russell nor Al Gore -- can stop them.

Is that what we want? To forfeit the beach to winged rats and compost? Surely there is something we can do.

At this point there are no easy answers. We could order a Purell air strike. Bombing always fixes things. We could build footpaths in the sand and admire the beach from afar as one might a botanical garden...

"And this section smells like blueberry cigar with a kiss of moldy clothing."

Or we could all take a seagull home, maybe work it into our diets. Surely it's no crueler than chicken. And I will have you know that a chicken is not, at this moment, eyeing your three-year-old's PBJ&GS, thinking, "She's got the bread, men, but we've got the numbers. We've got the numbers."

Just watch out for the anvil.

Posted by Jason Love at 6:41 PM

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